


Ivy and gold

by rillaelilz



Series: sb countdown 2017 [3]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 15:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12915180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/pseuds/rillaelilz
Summary: He was beautiful, Simon thought. He was beautiful, and he was within arm’s reach, and in a moment of utter madness, Simon thought that if he’d only reached out, Baz would have met him halfway and melted into his touch.





	Ivy and gold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for yesterday's prompt, _Flowers_ , because of course I'm still late. This is an experiment of sorts, kinda far from my usual style, but I tried *rolls off a cliff*
> 
> Have some Regency babes trying very very hard to flirt (and possibly failing).

 

 

 

 

_Meet me in the hallway_  
_Bite your lip when I say_  
_"Never have you left my mind"_  
_Stop and think it over, smiling, moving closer_  
_Oh, what a delicate time_  
(Bombay Bicycle Club; Ivy  & gold)

 

*

 

Father always said that Simon should not stray; that a path had already been traced ahead of him, and so he should simply follow it, well within the set boundaries of the winding road.

And yet, it had been Father’s own straying from the rules that had brought Simon away from the city, and under Grandmother Salisbury’s welcoming roof, to begin with. Not that Simon resented him too badly for that; the boy would never say so in front of anyone, of course, but in time he had learnt not to expect too much from his short-tempered parent.

Grandmother, God bless her, she was a different matter altogether. She had been more than kind, what with taking Simon in and never mentioning David’s name, or his shame, in Simon’s presence. And she always seemed to know when to give Simon his space.

Simon was grateful to her, he truly was, but society— it just wasn’t his thing.

After two dozen tea parties with countryside squires and respective families, complete with strings of nosy wives and marriageable daughters; after a great deal of pointless chatting and politeness and one too many rides on a chaise and four, a dancing party in the main Hall was the  _last_  thing Simon’s nerves could tolerate.

So, after a fresh round of prying looks and questions from half-strangers, Simon had decided to leave the scene as discreetly as he could; one wink from Grandmother had confirmed that the way was clear, and from there he had just let his feet wander, one eye out for unwanted pursuers and his nose picking up on the sweet scents that came from the gardens.

The night was pleasant out here; the sky a pure, silky blue around the twinkling stars. Simon entered the neat ensemble of hedgerows and flowerbeds, trying his best not to step on a patch of daffodils, and followed the trail of handmade lanterns without looking back, captivated by the dawny light they cast on the foliage.

It was only a matter of time before he found himself caught in a ring of rose bushes. He could still hear the distant sound of dancing and merrymaking, the lively rhythm of a jig making feet bounce and skirts swirl; but the scent of the flowers, hanging delicate and all too familiar around him, drowned everything else out.

_My boy, my rosebud._

There they lay, rich crowns of deep red, plump and tempting like the forbidden fruit.

_Come, Simon! Sing with me, rosebud!_

As if under a spell, he reached out to touch them, memories prickling like tears in the back of his mind.

“I see you have deserted the ballroom, too.”

Simon snatched his hand back, as if he’d just burned his fingers on an open fire. He turned around, heart pounding in his chest, and found a well-known figure standing not five feet from him, square shoulders silhouetted starkly against the light that oozed from the Hall’s tall windows, there in the background.

“Mister Pitch!” Simon exclaimed, unable to keep the shock from his voice. His heart was still hammering behind his ribcage, his breath catching oddly in his throat.

Across from him, Mister Pitch the Younger hesitated, and what might have been a grin on his face was quickly turning into a frown.

“Forgive me,” the newcomer said, halting in his steps, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Simon stood back, taking in the sight of him; the way moonlight played on his dark hair and smoothed his edges into soft lines, bringing out he chiseled bow of his mouth; the pearly grey of his eyes, as his gaze lingered on Simon, appraising him –  _reading_  him somehow.

Simon felt extraordinarily naked under that scrutiny. He always did.

“You are not to blame,” he assured in the end, attempting a smile. “I was lost in my thoughts and I didn’t hear you approach.”

He glanced at the building beyond Mr Pitch’s shoulder, with its festooned porch and inviting golden light; a bout of applause was crashing cheerfully inside, the sounds muffled out here. It was comforting in its own way, and it helped Simon relax a little.

“Besides,” he added with a lopsided grin, “I don’t suppose I shall be missed too badly. You may not have noticed, but I’m a terrible dancer.”

Mr Pitch’s lips quirked in a grin as well, mirroring Simon’s own.

“I  _have_  noticed,” he said, and Simon was surprised to find no malice in his gaze – only a playful glint, shining there under the surface, easy to catch.

This side of his personality was something Simon was still getting used to. It hadn’t been there (not for  _him_ , at least) when they’d first met – back when they were boys of thirteen and Mister Pitch had been introduced as  _Basilton_ , and he’d seemed ever so keen on making an art of humiliating Simon.

Simon hadn’t been looking forward to seeing him again, given their past, but time had changed quite a few things. Six years after his last visit to the countryside, he had found a different Basilton than the one he remembered; not a sharp-tongued boy, but a handsome young man – the biggest catch in the county, most coveted by daughters and mothers alike – and in a decidedly...  _kinder_  disposition towards Simon.

At the beginning of the season, when Simon had first arrived, Baz’s once snide remarks had been replaced by careful statements; and those, in turn, had slowly become friendly jokes, a harmless teasing of sorts that still baffled Simon.

The very way Baz looked at him seemed to have changed in the past few weeks, after they’d met at few social events, forced politeness and all. 

Sometimes he regarded Simon with interest. Other times, it was something more like kindness. Most of the time, Simon found himself reciprocating, and trying to ignore the way Baz’s lingering glances made the nape of his neck tingle with anticipation.

“I hope those were happy thoughts you were lost in, just now?” Baz inquired, taking a cautious step forward. Simon’s fingers curled into his palms, loose fists that lay at his sides and wrinkled the pristine lines of his suit.

“In a way,” he said. “I was only reminiscing.”

He turned towards the blooming rows of roses, something shifting in his chest as he felt Baz’s eyes on him.

“These were my mother’s favourite flowers,” he told Baz, quiet enough to hear his own breath leave his mouth, “they bring back many a memory of her. She loved them so,” Simon murmured, his heart full of her voice, of her fair hair crowned in sunlight – the vivid memory of her laughter, of the hem of her dress sopping up water from the stream as they stumbled together from rock to rock, his tiny hand clutched in hers.

Her hands would always smell like roses, Simon remembered – and her curls like honey, sweet and fragrant. When he was a little boy, he thought hugging his mother felt much like hugging a giant honeycake; it seemed silly now, but she had only ever thanked him, and agreed that it was the best compliment one could receive.

“My mother favoured them, too,” Baz confided quietly after a moment, shaking Simon out of his reverie.

Simon watched him hold out his arm, and trail a single fingertip along the dented hem of a rose’s petals; his touch cotton-soft and reverent, his expression strangely focused.

It struck Simon, the gentleness with which Baz brushed his knuckle to the rose’s velvety texture. It was a touch so delicate, Simon could almost feel it on his own skin, tickle-light on his cheek.

It occurred to him for the first time, then, that he had never seen Basilton Pitch touch anything – not a cup, not a plate, not even his own hat – or anyone, for that matter. The thought that he was finally witnessing it, and in such a manner – with Baz’s eyes so intent, and his touch so careful, it stirred something inside of him.

For a fleeting moment, Simon felt as if he were intruding on something private,  _intimate_  almost, and wondered if he should look away. Yet, he couldn’t find it in him to tear his eyes off Baz. The very sight of him was hypnotising.

“My father has kept her corner of the garden untouched all these years. Sometimes I’ll visit it,” Baz went on, rubbing the unfurled end of a petal between his thumb and forefinger, like a young girl admiring a silk ribbon. “I’ll sit on her bench, amongst her flowers, and I’ll feel a little closer to her,” he confessed, abandoning the rose at last.

When Simon lifted his gaze from Baz’s hand and up to his face, he found Baz looking back at him, his grey eyes twinkling and unusually, surprisingly soft. Simon swallowed; his stomach felt tight somehow.

“That must be–” he stumbled, “ _nice_. That feeling.”

Baz’s features, washed silvery and smooth with moonlight, broke into a smile; a shy, unguarded thing, one Simon had never seen him wear before, not around his many guests and relatives.

“It is,” Baz nodded, his voice as soft as his looks, and Simon found himself smiling back at him once more before he even realised it was happening.

“I should like to have something or somewhere like that, too, to remember my mother by,” Simon said, a spur of the moment, and when he saw Baz lick his lips he wondered if  _he_ , too, felt his mouth as dry as old bread. If he felt his heart beat quickly in his chest like a wild horse at a race.

“I could–” Baz began, hesitantly, “I could show you our gardens. If. If you wished.”

Simon saw him swallow thickly -- watched the sliver of exposed skin bob up and down over Baz’s adam’s apple, and he thought,  _Oh. You feel the same way, too._

A shiver ran down his spine, rousing goosebumps on his arms and neck.

_Oh._

“I would love that,” he said, and Baz’s answering grin felt like something of a miracle. It made Simon’s head reel, urge him to get  _More, more of this, I beg of you._

“I,” Simon blurted out, feeling quite silly and helpless, “I have seen more flowers in the past eight weeks than I had in my entire life.”

Well. It wasn’t a lie, all things considered.

After his mother’s passing, five years before, Simon and his father had stopped visiting Simon’s grandmother entirely, and their own summer estate as well. Until Father had seen fit to disappear out of the blue, like thin smoke blending into the sky, and Lady Salisbury had taken matters in her warm, wrinkly hands.

Simon had remembered little enough about the countryside, to be sure. Little, except for the dark-haired boy who’d laughed at him and wrestled him into the mud-stained grass by the lake during a fancy picnic, one Thursday afternoon. The very same boy who’d then grown into a stunning young man, and kept playing funny tricks on Simon’s heart every time they met.

The one who was regarding him curiously now, part confused, part amused by Simon’s stuttered words.

“Well,” Simon picked up, more awkwardly than ever, “of course I am grateful to my grandmother, Lady Salisbury, for allowing me to spend the season here with her.”

He shuffled his feet, kicking up bits of gravel in the process. Baz didn’t seem to notice; instead, he gestured to the rolling path ahead of them. Simon followed, glad for the distraction, and fell into pace with him. Soon they were walking together through the garden, green bushes and pretty blossoms twining around them, mixing fragrances with a light breeze.

“Do you know, I’m growing very fond of the countryside,” Simon said as they crested a new patch of daffodils, swaying like merry little trolls in the shadows. “It lends a kind of… inner peace, that I have been seeking for a while.”

Beside him, hands clasped gracefully behind his back, Baz hummed his agreement. Simon thought he caught a side-glance in his direction, and turned away to hide a grin.

“Why, Mister Pitch, I think I might be growing accustomed to our conversations as well. I do appreciate that indignant expression you’ll make every time I wrong a poet, by unwittingly maiming his verses,” he teased, and was rewarded by a none-too-elegant snort of laughter from his companion.

“Do you now,” Baz half-murmured, mirth gleaming in his eyes. Simon looked on, hoping to get another glimpse of that. It was fascinating.

“Well,” Baz granted him, “I might be growing accustomed to you, too - although, see, I have been told I shouldn’t.”

“Oh?” The words almost worried Simon, but the amused look on Baz’s face reassured him that he was merely being teased again.

“They tell me I should detest you, for stealing all the young ladies’ hearts in the county and leaving none for me,” Baz said, with that now-familiar glint lighting up his eyes.

Simon chuckled. “If one should detest one’s neighbour for so little a slight as this,” he mock-chided, laughter still bubbling about in his throat. “Besides, your honour stands unblemished. Unlike yours,  _my_  presence will hardly cause the ladies to swoon, or the gentlemen to bristle.”

He watched as the crooked grin on Baz’s lips opened in a proper smile, revealing white teeth and the faintest flash of a pink tongue beyond. Baz’s head dipped low for a moment, as if in modesty, and a stray lock of hair fell upon his brow, soft and darker than the night sky. Simon had never longed to touch anything so badly before.

“And you, Mister Snow?” Baz asked a moment later. “Do I cause you to bristle, as well?”

_No_ , thought Simon, a guilty pang squeezing his chest tight,  _I belong with the swooning lot._

“Not as much as it would be acceptable for one’s supposed rival, I’m afraid,” he replied instead, and felt all the more guilty when Baz faked a hurt expression, still carrying on with their jesting, his thin lips posed in a perfect bow.

“You mean to say, you don’t consider me an adequate rival?”

“Ah, quite the contrary,” Simon said, shaking his head. “I believe a man of your wit and stature would make for the best opponent, and most likely win the match – and the girl.”

He meant to sound confident, but when he met Baz’s stare, Simon felt himself waver. It was one of those times when Baz observed him in a peculiar way - intrigued, as if Simon were a mystery to fathom.

“Still,” Baz said, bemused, “you say  _would_ , and not  _does_.”

Something had shifted between them, Simon perceived it.

Somehow, the lighthearted tones they had spoken in so far were wilting, fragile under the weight and intensity of Baz’s gaze. It was both enticing and humbling, like the light of dawn that tinged the rolling hills and soft treetops outside Simon’s window with pink and tangerine every morning. And, for all of Simon’s strong hands and broad shoulders, he felt vulnerable in front of Baz, in a way he had never experienced before.

“Only–” he licked his lips, “only because I have no interest in that kind of competition, and for no other reason than that - pray believe me, Mister Pitch.”

Without realising, Simon had stopped walking, and now he watched as Baz came to a halt as well, turning his whole body towards Simon.

They were caught beneath one of the lanterns, Simon barely registered; the dusky orange light caressed Baz’s frame like gentle hands, collecting over the sturdy planes of his shoulders, dappling his cheekbones, his hair, the tip of his nose.

He was beautiful, Simon thought, some strange emotion settling heavily in the pit of his stomach, thickening like gruel in his guts. He was beautiful, and he was within arm’s reach, and in a moment of utter madness, Simon thought that if he’d only reached out, Baz would have met him halfway and melted into his touch.

“You don’t much care for the damsels’ attentions, then?” Baz asked, his tone deliberately neutral – but underneath his expensive clothes, his whole frame tensed, enough for even Simon to see.

Simon swallowed hard, his mouth parched. He felt as breathless as a man standing against strong winds, and all he could see was Baz, pinned against the night sky, in a silver-doused garden; his eyes like molten gold, his features a fine bas-relief in the fuzzy light. He didn’t even think before he opened his mouth.

“ _Not for the damsels, no._ ”

Too late did Simon realise that he had said too much, revealed too much. And yet when he looked up, when he saw the stillness in Baz as breath froze in his lungs – when he saw astonishment turn into sheer warmth and longing in his deep grey eyes, Simon thought he’d only said too little.

A hot shiver rolled down Simon’s spine as the tip of Baz’s tongue flickered between his lips to wet them; the thin moisture there caught Simon’s eye, enthralling.

“Is… that so,” Baz whispered. His gaze never left Simon’s, and Simon felt as if they were both floating, gravitating together, drawn in to one another.

“I–” Simon began, but the distant sound of voices approaching stopped him. A new, quick tune of joint flutes and strings reached them soon after, louder than it had been before.

Simon glanced around them, and noticed only then that, in their pacing, he and Baz had eventually turned back towards the main house, and while they would still go mostly unnoticed, they could easily see anyone who came out for a breath of fresh air. Including the little group of girls he spotted now, chatting and a-giggling, skirting the garden’s maze.

Overwhelmed by a sudden rush of shame, Simon hung his head, unable to look Baz in the eye. He knew that Baz must have seen them, too. And he knew that, whatever had passed between them while they were alone, was most likely broken now.

Even so, it was hard to let go.

“I,” Simon tried again, and again the words withered and died on his lips before they could ever be brought to life.

“Yes?” said Baz, gingerly, like one treading carefully into cold waters.

Just as carefully, Simon let himself seek out Baz’s gaze, and he dared to think he saw there the same hopeful spark that he felt in his own heart.

“You…” Simon said, too quiet over the deafening sound of his heartbeat. “You have failed to tell me whether or not you  _do_  detest me, as they say you should,” a pause, “Mister Pitch.”

Forgetting himself - and propriety,  _and_  the clapping crowd that awaited in a ballroom not too far from where they were standing - Baz surged forward, taking one step too close into Simon’s space, in a sudden show of ardour Simon had hardly expected from one as poised as Baz usually was.

Simon held his breath. He might have counted the silver flecks in Baz’s irises, this up close - might have lost himself in the fanning little shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheekbones.

“No.Far from it,” Baz said, determination set in the sharp line of his jaw.

He lifted his hands, and Simon thought they were going to grasp his own - could almost see it already, Baz’s long golden fingers curled around his clumsy ones - but then they balled into fists, held close to Baz’s body as if the young man had to keep himself from reaching out.

“I– quite enjoy your company,” Baz declared, somewhat awkwardly, and Simon felt his cheeks colour despite himself, “and I would sincerely... call you my friend.”

Simon stood gaping, breath coming in shallow puffs from his parted lips, and marveled at the intensity of the emotion Baz’s looks were betraying.

However, as seconds ticked by, Baz’s fervor tapered off, softening his features into something Simon would have called tenderness.

“Indeed,” Baz said in a much gentler voice, “I shall think myself offended, if I didn’t count you amongst my father’s guests, this day sennight.”

He took a last step towards Simon, their boots only mere inches apart and almost brushing together. Simon looked up; he had to tilt his head back to do so, and the thought sent a new shiver jolting down his spine.

He found himself curling into B’s height, his silhouette fitting into B’s taller frame, gaps to curves, although they weren’t touching. Yet so close were they, he could all but savour the feeling of Baz’s warm breath upon his lips, feel the sweet sparks of electricity between them as they gazed in each other’s eyes, lost to the rest of the world.

“You and Lady Salisbury will have already received your invitation, of course,” Baz was saying, so softly Simon felt his knees go weak underneath him, “but I would ask you to consider this a yet more official request. A prayer, if you will,” Baz said, mouth quirking in a shy grin like  _nothing_  Simon had ever seen. His stomach filled with butterflies; his heart raced wild and strong.

“You  _must_  be there,” Baz murmured, a sound low enough to rumble in his chest and into Simon’s - and  _there_  was his passion,  _there_  was the throat-tightening emotion Simon had witnessed mere moments before, blazing once more for only him to see.

Elation spread through Simon’s limbs, making him lightheaded, dizzy with pleasure and relief.

“So that you might prove me a poor dancer?” He whispered, grinning helplessly.

The delighted smile Baz gifted him with now-- it looked like the very incarnation of joy.

“So that I might show you our gardens,” B corrected, and then, almost challenging, “We could leave others to enjoy the dance floor,” he bit his lip, “perhaps pace awhile.  _Together_.”

The word left his lips like a secret, hushed and private and sugar-sweet. Here, in the narrow space between them, cradled in the joined heat of their breaths, it sounded like an admission of intimacy, almost indecent in the face of propriety. It said  _together_ , and it implied  _just the two of us_ , and it felt like a hot rush of blood in Simon’s veins.

Overwhelmed, Simon only said, “Yes, we could.”

Baz’s hand found his; a slight brush of their knuckles, their fingers meeting without twining. Simon didn’t dare look, but he let himself feel it, revel in it - that stolen touch as yearned as air to a drowning man.

“I would cherish your opinion on our roses,” Baz said distractedly, eyes flickering visibly -  _shockingly_  - to Simon’s lips.

“Yes,” Simon returned, hardly paying attention anymore. All too giddily, and without the slightest hint of regret, Simon realised that he would have agreed to anything Baz said; the man could have asked him to go fight a dragon and bring the scaly skin back for him to wear, and Simon would have said  _Yes, and yes, a million times yes_.

Baz’s knuckles grazed the back of his hand, as tender as a kiss, and Simon had to shut his eyes against the feel of it, just to keep himself upright.

“Yes,” he breathed out once more, “I would love that.”

Later, when it was time for them to part, they bid each other goodnight with that promise; and when he lay down in his bed that night, Simon dreamed of a garden bathed in sunlight, and Baz’s warmth to bask in.


End file.
